Solo Cups, Silver Linings
by claudiapriscus
Summary: Set late season 5. Dean runs into Cassie while investigating the strange fortunes of a small town. She's a little surprised to see him, considering he supposedly died in 2008. They never had a future together, but neither of them can escape the past. Written for the 2011 Reverse Bang. Art by Shichiloaf.
1. Bar, 2010

**This was originally my entry into the 2011 reverse bang. Unfortunately, I realized that I only managed to tell about half of the story in needed to be, so I am in the process of trying to actually finish it. **

**Original Summary: Dean runs into Cassie four years after he last saw her. She's a little surprised to see him, considering the many and varied reports of his death. He can't say the same. Some things just have clocks ticking on them from the moment of inception. It only makes sense that this would be one of them. Mild spoilers for season 5.  
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><p><strong>2010<strong>

The inside of the diner is a frenzy of motion and sound that is almost unreal after the hushed, still streets outside. Even the birds had sounded subdued as the sun inched its way up the horizon. Inside, the clatter of dishes, the rapid-fire comments of the cooks, the laughter of kids and still-tipsy college students blend together into a joyful cacophony that leaves Dean wincing. He rubs a hand over bleary eyes and signals to the waitress for a coffee refill. He wonders if he could convince her just to leave him with the whole pot, to save herself from future trips. It wasn't like anyone else in the restaurant needed it-they were positively perky, all on their own. After a few minutes, Sam reappears, sliding into the booth with a grimace and a grunt, a copy of the local paper clutched in one hand. "So I talked to Bobby," he says. "And I got the last paper," he adds, "Barely." He flourishes it in mock victory before slapping it on the table.

Dean frowns. "Seriously? What, are they limited editions or something?"

Sam flips the paper around so that it's facing Dean. The front page is predominantly occupied by a photo of maybe two hundred teenagers in front of an impressive civic-looking building.

"Huh." Dean kicks back another gulp of tepid, burned coffee. "Must have been a slow news day if they're featuring photos of field trips."

"Yeah, maybe. Apparently the entire senior class at the high school was in on some project for supplying cheap, portable water filters to the third world. That caught the eye of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and it all snowballed from there. And this," he says, stabbing a finger down on the photo, "is from an all-school field trip to the state legislature where they were recognized for the achievement."

"So let me guess- now every friend, neighbor, and family member is looking for a copy to cut out and put up on their refrigerators."

Sam shrugs. "That's my guess, anyway. But there are also about six dozen out-of-town reporters here, including three camera crews."

Before Dean could dredge up a suitable reply to that, the waitress bounds to their table back bearing an overloaded tray, but still no coffee. She deftly maneuvers two plates on to the table, somehow managing not to upset the entire tray. A basket of condiments soon follows. "Can I get you gentlemen anything else?" she asks.

Dean polishes off the remainder of his coffee and sets the cup down. "Just the coffee."

"You got it, hon," the waitress replies, so quickly it's probably nothing more than reflex. Before Dean can stress the importance of coffee, she's already made it to her next table.

"I bet you she forgets it. Again," he says, turning back to his brother.

Sam raises an eyebrow at that. "I thought you said it tasted like roadkill."

Dean makes a face. "It's hot and it's caffeinated. I'm not feeling picky."

"Brought it on yourself, man." Sam shakes his head. "I told you I was good to drive."

Dean looks at him sideways and conspicuously does not comment on the way Sam still favors his left side. "Nah, it was fine," Dean says at last. "It's not like I haven't pulled an all-nighter before." He cuts into his eggs and shovels them into his mouth.

Sam takes no heed. "Yeah, but usually not coming right off a job. Dude, you've had like what, eight hours of sleep in the last two days?"

It's been more like six hours, but that isn't a detail Dean feels like sharing. It's hard to sleep when my own brother keeps starring in my nightmares is not a conversation he has any intention of having. "Jesus, when did you become such a mother hen? I'm fine, Sam."

"You're an ass, is what you are." Sam answers back, not missing a beat, but it sounds almost rote, forced.

"I try. So are you going to sit there and play nursemaid for the rest of the day, or are you going to tell me what you got from Bobby?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Not much more than what we got last night. Not really. The short version is, he heard there might be something weird going on here, and told someone he'd get it checked out."

"And what's the long version? Bobby wouldn't send us here for shits and giggles. Who asked him to check it out?"

Sam shrugged, and gnawed on a piece of his toast. "Hunter by the name of Reynolds. Guess Bobby owes him a favor. Anyway, so it turns out this town has been kind of ridiculously lucky, recently. I mean, not in a way that's showy- not suicidal-teddy-bear lucky-" Dean nodded- "But still in pretty significant ways. You know the locusts that popped out of nowhere a few months ago?"

Dean frowns, brow furrowed and eyes up searching the ceiling. "The ones they thought were extinct?"

"Bingo. So those things have some of the largest swarms in recorded history. Hundreds and hundreds of miles just ravaged, including the whole northern part of this state, including the whole goddamn county, even. But not this town."

Dean grunts. "Thought this town looked a little less chewed on than normal."

"Exactly." Sam waves his fork around, food forgotten. "It wasn't on the edge of the swarm, either. So it's weird. But not really our kind of weird. Not until Reynolds got involved. Turns out he's a native of the great state of Colorado. He got wind of River Pass and started to put two and two together...and ended up with five. The man's kinda cracked, according to Bobby." Dean caught his eye. A certain degree of insanity was a given- no one in their right mind takes up chasing monsters in their spare time. To be notably unhinged on top of that was saying something.

Sam shrugs. "He's harmless, I guess. Relatively speaking. The point is, Reynolds looked at the omens around River Pass, and the eclipse last month, and the earthquakes four months ago...and Carthage," Sam stumbles over the word, "And figured it was the plagues of Egypt, you know, the whole nine yards." Dean gulps down some more terrible coffee and rolls his eyes before motioning Sam to continue. Sam gives him a wry smile. "So Reynolds gets it into his head that the only logical thing to do is to started looking for the chosen people. And here's Raighsville. Untouched by locusts, missed the total eclipse of course, and it's got the lowest infant mortality rate in the country. He decides to mosey on down here and just wait it all out. Except it doesn't exactly work that way. Every time he gets near the city limits, he wakes up eight hours later in a town on the other side of the state with one hell of a headache. So he makes some calls. And sure enough, no one else- hunters, at least- can get near the place. Same thing happens to them. Word gets 'round to Bobby, who files it under weird-but-not-important up until four days ago, when Reynolds tracked a whole group of demons here-"

"And?"

"And as soon as they crossed the city limits, they all burst into flame. Reynolds got a hold of the local paper, and the best the coroner could come up with was spontaneous human combustion."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "I don't really see the problem here."

Sam gives him a look that clearly means you're kidding me, right?

"Seriously, Sam. I mean, why us? This isn't exactly apocalyptic, it's unlikely that even something that's roasting demons would have any luck against Lucifer, and we don't really have the time to waste on an eight-hour magically induced blackout."

Sam shrugs. "I dunno. He called me an idiot and got kind of sarcastic when I said as much. No problem, he said, I'll just call one of all the other hunters who've got angels of the Lord on speed dial next time."

Dean shakes his head, but declines to comment on that. "I'm starting to think his priorities are a little screwed. I mean, it worked, obviously. Or probably- there's nothing to say the Reynolds guy didn't spend most of those eight hours wandering around town before getting whammied- but either way it's not really what I'd call a priority item."

"Even so-"

Dean sets his fork down. "No, I mean it. It's a waste of time. You know what mysteriously fortunate towns say to me?"

Sam sighs his my brother is unreasonable sigh."Could be a sign of something larger, who knows. Still. Maybe it's something we can use. It won't kill us to look- you need to sleep, anyway," Sam breaks out the earnest eyes. "And if I'm sure of anything, it's that at least if we poke at this beast, it's not likely to start poking back. We'll get a room, catch some sleep, shower, and do a little looking around for Bobby before taking off. It's not like we don't owe him."

Dean made a face and shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something just as the waitress rushed past, coffee pot in hand. "Hey!" he shouts, trying to flag her down.

The waitress pivots on one heel and spins back around. She . "Oh! Sorry. I forgot," she said. "Just give me a sec, I'll be right back- I'm empty." She shook the pot and then hustled off back towards the coffee maker.

"I swear I'm gonna to tackle her next time." Dean said. He turned back to his brother, but Sam was looking past him. Dean craned his head to see.

A small drama was apparently taking place a few tables down. There was a man down on one knee, a woman up on her feet, and a crowd gathered around. "Oh my god, yes! What the hell took you so long?!" shouted the woman, a small box clutched to her chest. The entire restaurant burst into applause.

The waitress reappeared at Dean's shoulder. "Kids these days," she said, shaking her head. "Third one this week." She topped off his mug and bustled off again before he could respond.

"What the hell is wrong with these people?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged. Dean gulped down more of the terrible coffee. "Must be something in the water."

Sam glanced back at the happy couple. "Maybe they should bottle it."

* * *

><p>Someone had gone to a lot of effort to extend the wallpaper on to the ceiling, though Dean was at a loss as to why. It was slightly more entertaining than staring at the standard stucco or perforated tile, but only if you considered 'so ugly my eyes are about to start bleeding' an improvement on boring.<p>

He should have fought Sam harder over library-duties. Sam was undoubtedly up to his elbows in microfiche by now, and turning his dimples on any elderly female librarians who frowned on his bogarting of the machine, but it had to be better than staring at the goddamn ceiling.

Dean was supposed to be catching some z's. The job- couldn't really be called a hunt- didn't really call for more than some basic research, and that was a one-man job. And Christ, he needed the sleep- a week's worth, maybe, but right now he'd settle for just five hours if he could get it. Sam would have time to complete the geek quest, and Dean's head would stop feeling like someone had stuffed it full of cotton, and then maybe they could even get a bite to eat before heading out. But his body wasn't cooperating. He'd managed to doze off once or twice, but he'd plunged immediately into fractured, unsettling dreams. They'd blurred into incomprehensibility as soon as he'd woken, but they left him itching with the sense of something off, wrong. They were better than the hell replays, but not really a whole lot more restful.

He stares at the ceiling for another ten minutes, then sits up. "Fuck it," he says to the room. It doesn't answer, but it doesn't matter: It's five o'clock somewhere. He leans over and scrounges around for his boots and puts them on. He pulls himself off the bed, wincing as he does so, and wishes like hell that his eyes would stop feeling like they'd been boiled in acid.

He checks his gun and wallet, tucking both away before stumbling out of the room. He shuts the door behind him, and squints out into the bright sunshine. He almost wishes Sam hadn't taken the Impala, but driving would be kind of counterproductive, all things considered. They passed the college right before hitting the motel, and if there is one thing you could count on about higher education, it's that there are always places serving plenty of cheap beer and fried stuff as close to campus as regulations allow. Dean slouches into his jacket and starts walking. His stomach rumbles in encouragement.

He doesn't have to go far. After a few blocks, the breeze brings the unmistakable smell of deep fat fryers and stale beer. It's emanating from a faux dive called the Rust Bucket Bar & Grill – complete with the rusted out back end of an old Dodge truck jutting jauntily from the roof- but the food smells good and there's a crowd lingering outside.

He pushes his way in through the novelty swinging doors hung just inside the entrance. Inside is a crowd just as big as the one outside, and just as varied as the customers at the diner. Dean ducks past a knot of college kids clustered around the waiting area and shoulders his way through the crowd in the bar up to the front. He finds himself nearly eye-to-eye with an old stuffed swordfish that's been nailed to the wall. Dean glances at it with a skeptical eye and turns his back to it. An old man sitting on the bar stool next to Dean gives him an inquisitive look from around a huge cheeseburger. Dean ignores him and looks over at the bartender, who is closing out the tab of three women in serious-looking business suits. They'd almost look out of place in the rowdy, happy chaos of the room except for the way they keep falling into deep belly-laughs and covering their faces with their hands. One of them catches his gaze and gives him a salacious wink and a wicked smile. She manages to hold it for a full ten seconds before laughing again, color rising to her cheeks. She turns back to her friends who nudge her hard with their elbows.

Dean hides a grin of his own, much to his surprise. The good-natured joviality of the crowd is infectious, and as unlikely and unexpected as it is, it's wearing down the tension in his shoulders and killing the headache he's been nursing for at least four hundred miles. Despite everything, he's feeling more human and more alive than he has in- years. Something in the water, he thinks and frowns. The conversation in the diner flickers in the back of his mind. He missed something-something the waitress had said-

"Can I get you something?"

Dean glances back at the bartender, feeling the last threads of whatever it was escaping his mental grasp, and he gives the short, freckled, middle-aged woman leaning on the bar across from him a reflexive smile. She repeats the question, louder this time. "I'll take a beer," he says, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the crowd. "Whatever you've got on tap."

She bends down and pulls a cold glass out of a small fridge, then sets it on the bar. "Sure thing, hon. Gotta preference?"

"Whatever's good."

She frowns at that, taking it lot more seriously than he expected. It's one of those bars. "It's all good, but we've got a seasonal just in I think you'll like."

He's feeling skeptical, but merely shrugs and says, "Fine with me." He watches as she fills the glass, foam rising to the top but not overspilling the glass. He pushes some money to her and tells her to keep the change before grabbing the beer and retreating to a less-crowded corner near a couple of beat up old pool tables. He leans back against the bar separating the bar from the dining area. He tastes the beer; It's light and crisp and odd, but it's not bad. He drinks long and deep from the glass before setting it down on the counter. The glass is almost swallowed by fake vines and plastic leaves pouring out of the equally fake planter that screened the bar from the entrance. Dean rescues the beer from the encroaching vines, intending to finish it off, when some little niggling instinct starts flashing in the back of his mind. It's a feeling he's more used to associating with ducking pool cues in bar fights and being jumped from behind, but this time it's a voice, half-heard through the chatter of half a hundred other people. He brushes the vines aside, and looks through the trellis at a woman saying something to the hostess. She brushes her hair away from her face and catches sight of him from the corner of her eye. She stops and turns to stare directly at him.

"Dean?"

She almost looks affronted. Dean feels strangely disconnected from the moment, like it's something he saw from a distance a long time ago. He meets more people in a year than most do in their lives: a parade of people- mourners and victims, cops and monsters, waitresses and one-night stands. They don't put in repeat performances; it's the nature of the job. He'd lost track of the number of people who said they'd never forget him,but there's a weird kind of comfort in never knowing if they did. It's bullshit, but the kind he can tolerate. And then there are the small number of people and places and things that always seem to come back around. He's lived his life haunted by a sense of inevitability, like someone watching two trains glide down the same stretch of track. Some lessons have to be taught in blood and pain before they sink in, and this is one he's learned well: there are some things that can't be changed, can't be bargained away. It's not destiny; destiny's just bullshit pushed by those who don't want the marks to realize the game is played with loaded dice. This isn't. There's no one rigging this game. Some things just have clocks ticking on them from the moment of inception.

It only makes sense that she'd be one of them. He takes a breath.

"Cassie."


	2. Library, 2004

2004

"Cassie...Casssssie," sang the person across the table. Cassie ignored her, though that tactic had a limited chance of success. Sherri could channel a two year old when she really wanted to. Luckily for Cassie, the toddler routine was replaced with drumming her fingers on the table. Which was still annoying, but not as nearly distracting, at least until it stopped abruptly, much to Cassie's surprise. But Sherri wasn't giving in, just changing tactics. Instead she said, "Now there's a stud for you, Cassie."

Cassie glanced up from the books she had spread over the table and brushed a curl of hair out of her eyes. "You're just going to keep interrupting me until I give up, aren't you?"

Sherri shrugged, and it was a shrug so expansive that it was nothing short of Gallic, ending with a flick of perfectly manicured nails. "The bar is calling our name, Cassie girl. And don't pretend it isn't- you've been staring at the same page for the last five minutes."

"It's called thinking. It doesn't mean I'm secretly hoping you'll drag me off to the pool tables."

"If you say so," said Sherri with a shrug and a grin. "But now that I've torn your attention from no doubt riveting accounts of local architectural mishaps, you may as well give into a little distraction."

Cassie rolled her eyes. "Fine, I give in." She put her pen down and propped her head up on one hand, her elbow resting on the table. "Where is this un-para-lleled specimen of manhood?" she asked, pitching her voice into an outrageously exaggerated version of Sherri's own Tennessee accent.

"That's not nice, Cassie." Sherri fake-pouted at Cassie for a second then said, "He's up at the reference desk."

"Oh, that's not going to be obvious at all," Cassie complained, "considering it's directly behind me."

Sherri tsk'd. "Whine later, ogle now."

Cassie turned to look at the man talking animatedly to the woman behind the desk. He stood in profile relative to Cassie, giving her a good view of a face that surely should have been gracing the covers of teenybopper magazines. He was tall, broad shouldered, and the faded denim of his jeans did little to disguise the fact that he had the backside of a Greek god. "Hmm," Cassie said. She could hear Sherri grinning. She glanced back and said, "Not bad at all. I'll give you that." Cassie glanced back down at her book, hiding her smile.

Sherri laid a hand flat on the book. "Cassie. You've got to be kidding me. What are you, blind? That boy is beautiful."

"Says you," Cassie said, smirking and looking up at last.

"Says anyone with a pulse," Sherri retorted. She rolled her eyes at Cassie's smirk and added, "I'm glad to see you can be counted among the living."

Cassie shrugged. "Don't get me wrong- he's grade A eye-candy. But Hartford is going to have my ass if I don't get this paper in on Monday-" Sherri made a dismissive sound in her throat - "And I need this class to graduate."

"Fine. Ruin my fun," Sherri said, but her tone was light and teasing. She began fidgeting again, picking up one of Cassie's pencils and doodling on a piece of scrap paper.

"Don't tell me you're in the market for a new boy-toy," Cassie said.

"Pfft," said Sherri, waving a hand dismissively. "Please. I'm quite fond of my current one. That doesn't rule out a little window shopping. And maybe having a friend go for a little test drive?" The last part was said in a voice of perfect innocence.

"Does your mind ever leave the gutter?"

Sherri smiled. "I certainly hope not."

Cassie glanced back at the reference desk. "I bet you anything he's an air-headed frat boy."

"I'm not sure I see the problem with that." Sherri put down the pencil and started folding the piece of paper she'd been doodling on.

"Trust me, I do."

"Are you telling me that if that man walked over here right this instant and offered to take you away from all this for a wild night of passion, you'd tell him no?"

"Unless he's got the inside scoop on the history of Ridges, yeah, that pretty much about sums it up."

Sherri's restless fingers stilled for a moment. "You want him...for assistance with your paper?"

"Nah, but it'd be a lot easier to indulge in a night of passion if I wasn't chained to the books trying to get the damn essay done."

The lights flickered off and on again. "Oh, would you look at that?" Sherri said, perking up and doing her damndest to sound surprised. "The library is closing in ten minutes. We should probably go, don't you think?"

Cassie shook her head. "Damn, Sherri. That was kind of evil."

Sherri flicked the paper football she'd made at Cassie. "You wouldn't have any fun without me."

Cassie sighed and picked the paper triangle off her sweater. "Oh, the things I'd do without you."

Sherri leaned forward on to her elbows. "Surely you mean, 'what would I do without you'?"

"Nah, I'm pretty sure I've got that covered," Cassie said, rummaging through her notes.

"You love me anyway, right?" Sherri pressed.

"Sometimes." Cassie stressed the word.

Sherri bit her lip. "Well, um... just try to keep that in mind."

"Why?"

"You know the guy?" Sherri asked, a smirk slowly replacing the lip-chewing.

"Yeah?"

"He's headed this way."

"You and your damn ogling," Cassie hissed.

They both tried to look busy as the guy came closer. Maybe if they ignored him, he'd think he was mistaken and go away.

It didn't work. "Ladies," he said. There was an awkward pause as neither looked up. Sherri kicked Cassie from underneath the table, and Cassie gave in. She looked up brightly from the book, putting her best professional smile on. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor," he said, giving her a crooked smile. She was willing to bet it was one he'd practiced in the mirror. She arched an eyebrow. "Depends on the favor," she said carefully.

He smiled more fully at that. "Oh, I promise you it'll be painless."

"That's what they all say," Sherri muttered. Cassie kicked her hard and smiled at the guy, pretending not to have heard.

"What's up?"

"Well, it's like this. I've been working on a project on the old Athens asylum – you know, the Ridges-"

Sherri choked, and Cassie determinedly kept her smile pasted on.

"-but I've kinda hit a dead end."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Apparently there's these two gorgeous girls looking into the exact same topic, and they've got all the books."

Cassie rolled her eyes. "They'll still be here tomorrow," she said, "and you might even persuade me to share."

He grinned."Normally, I'd have no problem with that," he said. She could hear the 'but' coming. ""The thing is," the guy said, clucking his teeth like a mechanic about to deliver some very lucrative bad news, "this project I'm working on is of a time sensitive nature."

Cassie made a show of checking the time on her phone, and then raising her eyebrows. "So time sensitive you're going to be able to get it done in the next ten minutes?"

"Oh no," he said. "I'm going to check them out."

Cassie wrinkled her nose. "These are are short-term checkouts. You can't take them out of the library."

He full on smirked at that. "I'm very persuasive. Me and the desk librarian? We've got an understanding."

"Hmm," Cassie said, non-committal. She was having trouble focusing- Sherri was attempting Morse code via ankle kicking. Cassie kicked back and then tried to pin Sherri's foot to the floor. The subsequent wrestling match had her setting her elbow on to the table and using her hand to prop up her chin to try and pretend everything was normal. She suspected it didn't work. The guy's smile, if anything, grew wider.

Cassie blinked at him, then mentally replayed the last thing he'd said. "Wait, you're taking the books?"

"That's the plan."

"It's a goddamn lousy plan. You may not have noticed, but I'm kind of using these."

He shrugged, careless. "You can't use them tonight."

"Yeah, and what about tomorrow?"

"Look, sweetheart, whatever it is can wait," he says, cocky as hell, giving her a slow, seductive smile, "I promise you'll get to finish your homework."

"Are you always this charming, or have you been saving it all up for me? Does that actually work on anyone?" Sherri kicked her from underneath the table again, but Cassie ignored her.

The guy blinked at her, like he was actually finally seeing her and not running on autopilot. "Look," he said again, more seriously this time, "I'm honestly not just being an asshole here." Her skepticism must have showed, because he grimaced and looked her dead in the eye. "No seriously," he continued, and his tone had lost the swagger, sinking into something more serious, more earnest. "It's connected to the deaths six years ago."

Somewhere deep inside Cassie's soul, she could feel her initial hostility transforming into curiosity. "What are you talking about? What deaths?" She frowned and shook her head, and something clicked. All schools have their urban legends and she knew better than to believe them, especially as they tend to be the same everywhere you go. But this one sounded familiar, something she'd heard as a freshman... "Wait, you mean the story about the guys who committed suicide? "

His eyes told her she was right even before he nodded."That's it...well, part of it," he said with a shrug. His tone turned authoritative. "It's a cycle. 1998, 1992, 1986, 1980... Three people dead, always two men in their 20s and a teenage girl. Nothing in common but that they supposedly decided to kill themselves right out of the blue and right after a visit to the grounds of the Athens Lunatic Asylum."

"The Ridges," Sherri supplied, with a meaningful glance at Cassie before turning back to the guy. "They renamed it when the university took it over," she said.

Cassie rolled her eyes. Sherri had apparently been doing more than scribbling on her notes. Cassie sighed. "Come on. What, you think it's a serial killer? Someone would have noticed."

He shifted his weight back and forth and didn't answer right away. "No...not exactly. But something." He fell silent again, and Cassie could almost see him mentally weighing something. Finally he said, "The pattern's not obvious. The dates alternate. January, 1980. July, 1986. February, 1992. August, 1998..."

"March, 2004," interjected Sherri. She always was good at sequence puzzles, Cassie thought, looking more closely at her friend. Sherri was watching the guy with wide, startled eyes.

He nodded his head. "Yeah."

"Suicides tend to cause copycats," Cassie said flatly, "It's a well known phenomenon, and the timing is too weird to be anything else." There was something so fundamentally wrong with the fact that fearless, tactless, carefree Sherri had been spooked, however briefly, by some idiot's half-baked campfire story.

"Whatever," said the guy. His patience was apparently wearing thin. "I need those books. I don't really care if you think it's a waste of time...and trust me, you don't want to be wrong."

Cassie glared at him. "What is that, blackmail? Look- you're trying to grab the sole copies of a bunch of books required for a class that grades on a curve a week before finals, and the best explanation you'll offer is to share a half-baked urban legend. It's not rocket science. I'm allowed to be a little skeptical."

The guy rubbed a hand across his eye, and some odd mental filter in Cassie's brain clicked into place, and she was suddenly aware of how very, very tired he looked.

"Look, lady. I pulled an all-nighter trying to get here. I promise I'm not some asshole trying to make a grade. I'll make you a deal." He pulled a notebook out of his back pocket and grabbed her pen off the table. He scribbled something on a page, tore it out, and handed it to her.

It was a phone number. "Call it," he said. "That way you'll know it's real."

She eyed it suspiciously for a second, then looked back up. "Fine," she said, and dug her phone out of her book bag. She dialed, and was unsurprised when she heard a muted buzzing. He pulled out his phone and showed it to her. Her number flashed out at her from the tiny front display.

"I'll borrow the books," he said, "and if they're not back here by tomorrow morning, you can call me and chew my ass out then, alright?"

The library lights flashed on and off again, but were followed this time by the sound of the PA clicking on. "The library is now closing."

Cassie stared flatly at the guy, then glanced down at the books, and decided to go with her gut. She sighed. "I guess you've got a deal." She shoved her notes back into her bag and stood up. "C'mon Sherri. You owe me a drink."

Sherri stood up and stretched. "It's about time," she said. She glanced at Cassie and then back at the guy. "I'll just meet you outside."

The guy took little notice, his eyes still on Cassie. "Thanks," he said. "Just don't make me regret it," she said, and turned to leave. "You won't." He sounded sure. Cassie shrugged and headed for the exit. She found Sherri leaning against a wall in the lobby. "Hey, so that was weird," Sherri said, coming over. She quickly matched Cassie's pace. Cassie shook her head as they headed outside. "Yeah, no kidding."

"But you did get his number." Sherri gave her a sideways smile and waggled her eyebrows.

Cassie grinned. Whatever strange mood had overtaken Sherri had apparently worn off. "Guess so," she said, looking down at the piece of paper. Right at the bottom, as if it'd been an afterthought, the guy had added his name. She crushed the paper into a ball and tossed it into a trash can as they passed it.

Dean. It suited him.


	3. The Rust Bucket, 2010

**2010**

Dean stares at Cassie through the tacky, plastic vines. "I thought you were dead," she blurts.

"What?" She couldn't have known, he thinks. He's living a weird, plastic-vine version of that old Dr Livingstone, I presume? schtick and all he can wonder for a second is how she knows. She was never a stop on the farewell tour.

"I don't know," she hisses, suddenly sounding angry where a second ago she sounded surprised, "Maybe it had something to do with all the news reports about the deaths of the notorious serial killer."

It clicks for him then: Henriksen. The whole fugitive-from-the-law thing was something that had kind of fallen off his personal radar. Prison and/or execution are the least of his worries; it's not like either one would stick. He doubts the prison system has any angel-proofing.

She's watching him with a bemused expression. "Is any of this ringing a bell?"

He shakes his head. "Ah- Cassie. Shit." He rubs a hand over his forehead and pinches his nose. "I'd kinda forgotten about that." He looks back up drinks in the sight of her. She's cut her hair shorter, but she's still so much the woman he remembers. "It's good to see you, Cassie." He means it. It's the middle of goddamn apocalypse, misery and mayhem everywhere, and then here's Cassie, still able to smile with the same ease he remembered, even if she's not inclined to do so now. Some days it feels like everyone who ever heard the name Winchester is now dead, or looking to get there soon. And here's Cassie, alive as ever, untarnished by any of it.

She's still as tenacious as ever. She ignores his last statement and goes right for the throat. "You forgot?" she says, incredulous, and then drops her voice down to a harsh whisper. "The whole damn police station exploded-"

"It's been a busy couple of years," he says, cutting her off, not wanting to get into it. Not that it had a chance in hell of working.

"Yeah, I'll bet." She breathes out through her nose. "I get it. It's not like I was looking to be on your...little black book Christmas card list. But seriously, you could have called and let me know before I had to hear it on facebook." He's struck with a sudden bout of not-quite deja vu, hearing an echo of Ellen saying almost the same damn thing to him only a few months ago. Cassie frowns suddenly, concern written in every line, and he wonders when his faced turned traitor. She pokes at the plastic vines. "This is crazy," she says, "Stay there."

She disappears from view for a few seconds before he spots her marching her way into the bar. He briefly toys with the idea of just vanishing into the crowd, but after standing up to the devil himself, he can't exactly justify running from an old flame. A path clears before her. She heads directly for him, not stopping until she's standing less than a foot away, her eyes boring into his skull. "I never really pictured running into you again, but still, you couldn't drop me a line and let me know you were alive? Or you know, not a serial killer? Not that I thought that, but it kind of would have been nice to know the truth myself when I was having deal with everyone and their brother acting like I'd dated Ted Bundy."

"Tell you what?" Dean says, and there's a bitter finality to it. He turns and pulls away. "I thought I was doing you a favor," he says, looking back at her, "I didn't think you'd want the half the FBI camped out on your front porch." He gestures, then leans back in. "Besides, I thought you made things pretty clear, last time I saw you."

"I already had half the FBI camped out on my front porch, Dean." She grits her teeth for a second and returns his stare. "And anyway, all I remember is telling you I didn't see much hope for us. Which, you know, wasn't exactly news. And you think, what, that I didn't give a shit...that I'd just be able to change the channel when the news came on about the death of the notorious bank robber and serial killer?"

"Cassie-"

She sighs. It's resigned and regretful and not a little exasperated. "Forget it. I know things didn't end on the exact note I might have wanted." She lets out a breath. "Dean- it was never a matter of out of sight, out of mind for me. I don't work like that."

"Maybe you should." It comes out sounding sharper than he means.

She blinks in him in consternation, then crosses her arms. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Just what it sounds like." He says it in an offhand way, but she doesn't rise to the bait. She frowns at him for a half a second, her previous ire melting away. She looks him up and down, then around at the bar and the crowd of happy people still chattering away. "What's wrong?"

She still had that instinct for bullshit. "Nothing. Just forget it." He takes a drink from his glass.

She keeps her gaze fixed on him, and her posture makes him think of a snake about to strike, that coiled tension that says tread carefully. "Oh, come on. You can't say something like that and just drop it. Especially if it's your idea of an excuse for falling off the face of the earth."

"Just let it go, Cassie," he says, feeling tired. "It sucked, I'm sorry. Why can't you ever just let it go?"

She arches a brow at him." I don't know, Dean. Can't you ever stop lying to me?"

He sets his glass down and folds his arms. "Telling the truth somehow never works out for me."

She flicks her eyes skywards, and her mouth forms a hard line. "Maybe not. But that was a long time ago, and you telling me? Saved my life. I can't exactly forget that."

"You made it pretty clear that you don't want anything to do with this life, with my life, and you know? That's probably the smartest thing you could have done."

She gestures broadly, holding her arm out and then placing her hand back on her chest. "Yeah, I don't want to be involved," she waves a hand as if conceding the point, "I'm not stupid, Dean. You can't tell me it doesn't just swallow people whole and spit them back out, look at you-"

He presses his knuckles into his forehead. "I've never said otherwise, that's exactly the point-"

"-but that doesn't mean I don't want to know," she finishes. "How the hell am I supposed to sleep at night?"

"Pretty well, I'd hope. That's kinda the entire point of what I do."

She shakes her head sharply, her long earrings echoing the motion. "That's bullshit, Dean. Ignorance is not bliss when the difference between life and death is knowing to keep yourself well-stocked in salt."

Dean breathed out sharply through his nose. "You know, once upon a time I would have agreed with you, but that was before-"

"Before what?" She's got one hand on her hip and is leaning in close, getting right up in his face. Tenacious as a bulldog.

"Before I realized it didn't matter." He rolls the words off his tongue, feigning a casualness he does not feel.

She stops, affronted and startled by his answer. Whatever answer she was expecting, it wasn't that. Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, a tiny scoreboard gains a point. "What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" she demands, "It damn well matters, and I know you agree with me, because why else would you be constantly throwing your life away?"

He shrugs, faking indifference. "The point is shit happens either way. Can't always stop it. And people are a lot better off not knowing what's coming when there's fuck all they're gonna be able to do about it."

"And who the hell are you to decide that?"

"That's not what this is about, Cassie." He turns his head away with a bitter twist.

"Isn't it?"

"No." He works his jaw. "I'm not- I'm not trying to pretend that I've got all the answers, or that my choices are always the best or the wisest. Truthfully? It seems like everything I touch turns to shit nowadays, and I'm just doing the best job I can. But there are things out there- things I've done, things I've seen- that I wish to God I could just forget. But that's not how it works, and I never really had a choice anyway." He turns to face her again, and stares her dead in the face. "But you do. So why the hell would I want to involve you in that? Because that's what we're really talking about here, Cassie. You think you can just...keep it in a box, look at it like a research project? That's not how it works. You said you didn't want to get involved, and you're damn right. It does swallow people whole. But it's not hunting that does that." He stops, and breathes heavily. She glares at him, stubborn as always. Unconvinced. "It's the knowledge that goes with it, Cassie," he finishes, quietly this time.

"And that includes just knowing you're alive?" She sounds less angry now, more puzzled.

"What?" His brain is finally rebelling against the lack of sleep, but after a second he finally gets where she's been going with all this. Maybe she should have been a lawyer instead of a journalist. He shakes his head, refusing to give her the answer she's looking for. "Yes, no. I don't know. It's complicated, Cassie."

"So uncomplicated it for me."

He rolls his shoulders. "Fine, whatever." He rubs an eyebrow. "It's been a long couple years. If you'd asked me a couple years ago..." he pauses,"I'd probably have answered differently. God. When I last saw you, we were still just looking for my dad..." It feels impossibly distant.

She nods. "Did you ever catch up with him?"

He snorts. "More like he caught up with us." He shakes his head. "Unfortunately. And when the dust cleared...except it never really did." He runs a hand through his hair. "So there was that, and then Sam and I had to fall off the radar for a while, and by the time I could have maybe done anything about it, I...got involved in some bad shit." She looks at him in consternation, doubtlessly trying to picture what could be worse than she already knows. He's got no intention of enlightening her. "You and me... If I showed up, you'd want answers. And I could just see you digging and digging and eventually Sam would have cracked."

"Sam would have cracked." She grins, and it's like the sun breaking through the clouds.

"Oh yeah," he says, glad to have moved on to safer ground. "And then the two of you would have ganged up on me and that would have really sucked." She grins again and shakes her head, but she's got a glint in her eye that tells him she's not about to let it go that easily. More soberly, he says, "Cassie, there wasn't anything anyone could do- and trust me, there were people trying. I didn't want to drag another person down with me. And it'd been a couple years at that point. You'd moved on-"

"I'm not denying that," she said, shaking her head. "I just..."

"I get it, Cassie. I could have dropped you a postcard, but at that point, it would have been a lie. So I just let it go. It wasn't the worst thing I did that year. And to be completely honest, I never really expected to be in a position to be making any apologies."

She looks at him hard, and her voice is tinged with alarm. "Dean, just what did you do...?"

He brushes her off. "It's not important. Look, you wanted to know and I'm telling you."

She sighs and drops her gaze. "You're an idiot." He dips a shoulder in agreement, not bothering to argue. "But so am I," she adds, looking back up. She gives him a wry, wan smile. "You don't owe me anything, Dean. I just...I wasn't expecting to see you here."

He nods, then kills the last of the beer. "Likewise."

"I got a job here after the paper back home shut down- what's your excuse?" Her tone has a deliberate lightness to it.

"The usual. The town's had more than its share of good fortune."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"Nah. There's a full complement of weird to go along with it too. But it's just a pit-stop, not a serious case. We're doing a favor for a friend."

"Well, I am the town reporter. Is there anything specific you were looking for?"

"Jesus, you really don't let anything go, do you?"

"It's right there in the job description. So stop stalling. It's pointless."

He shrugs, giving up. "It's not what you'd call exciting. We're the first hunters in a while who've been able to get anywhere inside the town limits...something like that, anyway. And apparently there's something here that torches demons."

Something passes across her face too quickly for him to decipher it. She blinks, and he suddenly remembers that demons were definitely not part of the Truth Is Out There speech she got. He forgets, sometimes, that there was ever a point when demons weren't a constant plague on their lives. She blinks again, then turns her head to the side, as if filing away the inevitable questions for later investigation. It's...not what he would have guessed. He frowns.

"Dean," she says, blinking one eye open at him, "That would have been something we noticed, wouldn't have it? I mean, even that goddamn truck-"

He feels a chill settle over his skin. "Yeah- there would have been bodies. Cassie, you telling me no one found anything? Didn't your paper do a report on spontaneous human combustion, or anything?"

She shakes her head. "No. I mean, Raighsville's got one of the lowest crime rates in the whole country- it's not something that could be missed. It's definitely not something I would overlook, either. I mean, I can't even remember the last burglary let alone murder they've had in this town."

"Shit." Dean ran a hand over his head. "Shit." He slaps a hand down on his pocket, but his phone doesn't magically materialize. He'd walked out of the motel room with his gun and his wallet, but not his phone. He pushes a hand across his face. "Fuck. Cassie, you got a phone I could borrow?"

She's frowning at him, but she digs a phone out of her bag and hands it to him. "Why? What's wrong?" He ignores her, tapping out something before handing the phone back. "I gotta go, Cassie," he says, heading back towards the bar, pushing his way through the crowd and out towards the exit.

She watches him walk away. She looks down at her phone, still in her hand, and checks her sent messages. Two messages to numbers with area codes she doesn't recognize. The first consists solely of an address in town, just a few blocks over. A motel, she assumes. The second...she closes her hand around her phone and presses her lips together. Reynolds lied. She can put two and two together. Someone lured him here, and she's sure it's not for anything good. Trouble's been chasing his heels every time their paths have crossed. She doesn't think it's a coincidence.

She shoves her phone back in her purse and tries to convince herself to go back to the hostess and back to her day. It's harder than she expected. It had never been anything as simple as a misunderstanding that stood between them, and she'd understood that when she'd last said goodbye. She was never born to play Penelope. She looks back through the vines at the restaurant half of the Rust Bucket.. Lunch is still calling her. She puts one hand over her eyes. "Shit." She digs her keys out of her bag and heads straight for her car.


	4. Bar, 2004

2004

Cassie stood on the outside edge of the crowd around the pool table and looked out over a room full of people. She saw no sign of Sherri. She glanced back at the clock on the wall. Sherri was nearly an hour late, and hadn't responded to Cassie's texts. She slumped against the wall for a moment before giving in and climbing up on a bar stool. At least she had a good view of the pool game. There was some sort of quasi-unofficial tournament that night, the sort of thing the bar owners were happy to ignore as long as the beer was flowing. The next game hadn't yet started, but further into the crowd, she could hear people placing bets and laughing.

"So you finished your paper," said a voice in her ear. She jumped, then turned to see the guy from the library- Dean- holding a pool cue and grinning at her.

"You did that on purpose," she complained.

"Kinda." His grin turned into a smirk. "You jumped like three feet in the air."

"You're all about making friends and influencing people, aren't you?" she said, crossing her arms and tilting her chin up.

"Oh, you know. I try," he said, blatantly giving her the once-over. "Especially when people look as good as you do."

"Uh-huh." Cassie gave him her best please, fool look and ignored the compliment. "So why are you here? What are you doing, stalking me?"

"I could ask you the same question, sweetheart." He arched his brows.

Cassie looked at him askance."Oh, believe me, if I were stalking you, you'd never see me coming."

He grinned again, easy and open, and she nearly facepalmed for walking into so obvious an opening. So much for witty repartee. He answered just as she expected:

"Good thing you're not, then. I'd love to see you coming."

She scrunched up her nose. "Oh, I bet you think you're so clever-"

"-can't help what I am-" He interjected, cocky and self-assured.

She leaned forward on the stool and right into his personal space before finishing: "What makes you think you could possibly keep up?"

"Try me," he challenged.

Cassie sat back and clucked her tongue. "Aw, sorry. I don't do test drives, honey. "

He made a fair enough face, but it was just a feint, one which quickly mutated into something wickedly sly. "Who said anything about a test drive?"

She gave in and burst out laughing. "You are too ridiculous."

He grinned. "I try."

"Yeah, I bet."

"What are you saying?"

"Oh, nothing," she teased. "Wouldn't want to bruise a fragile male ego."

"Good- I wouldn't want to be thrown off my game." He gave her a suggestive look that made it clear he wasn't talking about pool.

Cassie found herself giggling at that, stupid as it was, but couldn't quite muster enough shame to feel bad about it. "You don't have to worry about that, either."

He held a hand dramatically to his breast. "You wound me."

"I doubt it," Cassie observed. Dean shrugged easily and leaned back against the wall, watching the crowd. "You know, I didn't actually expect you to return the books. So thanks for that."

He glanced over at her, then back at the crowd. "Finished what I came for."

"Oh yeah. Your mysterious serial killer." Her tone was light, teasing. Sherri'd been right. He was fine. Cassie briefly wondered if Sherri flaking out was part of some plan to get her to talk to the guy, but that was too Machiavellian to imagine- not to mention improbable- even for Sherri.

"Where's your friend?" he asked, failing to rise to the bait.

Cassie sighed. "Flaked out, I guess."

"Her loss, my gain." He turned back to face her, but was interrupted by a shouted: "Winchester! You're up!" Dean pushed off the wall. "That's me," he said, "And now you know my name, but I still don't know yours, beautiful."

She rolled her eyes. "It's Cassie."

"It suits you. Cassie." He tasted the word, then grinned. He nodded towards the pool table. His eyes danced. "Watch this."

* * *

><p>2010<p>

When Dean got back to the motel room, it was empty. He grabbed his phone. No messages. He called Sam, but it rang through to voicemail.

"Pick up your damn phone, Sam," he said, then hung up. He paced the room, pressing one hand against his forehead. He spun around on his heel and called Cas. No answer there either. He hung up and typed out a text message: Call me ASAP. He headed back outside and called Bobby. The phone rang twice before being picked up. Dean heaved a sigh of relief.

"Bobby. What do you know about that Reynolds guy?" He cradled the phone against his ear.

"Hey, Dean. Good to hear from you too." Nice to know that Bobby was feeling extra-helpful today.

"Look, Bobby, it's important."

"It always is. What's the problem?"

"We're in Raighsville-"

"Yeah, I know that-"

"But there weren't any demons."

"What?"

"Reynolds. He lied. This town hasn't seen so much as a burglary recently apparently, let alone three demons going up like roman candles."

Bobby said nothing, but Dean could hear his breathing. "Dean, I don't know what to tell you. I know Reynolds, he's always been dependable, if a little...fixated. I got the reports of not being able to go into town from three other hunters, at least." Bobby pauses again. "I don't know what's going on, but I'll see what I can dig up. Just don't wait around. I don't like the way this smells. I'd round up Sam and get the hell out of there if I were you, boy."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking, Bobby. I'll call you from the road. If I can find Sam. And my car," he adds.

"Sam's gone missing? And you didn't think to mention that first?"

Dean shakes his head, forgetting Bobby can't see him. "I don't know Bobby. He's not picking up his phone, but he's supposed to be in the library...I'm going to go see what I can find out."

"Good luck. Try not to do anything stupid. I'll see what I can find out."

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean hangs up puts the phone back in his pocket. He walks out to the street and looks up and down it, trying to find a car he could steal without drawing too much attention. He's got a feeling it's a lost cause. This is a small town. A blue SUV honks, drawing him out of his thoughts. The window rolls down, allowing him to see the driver more clearly. Cassie.

"You look like you could use a ride," she calls.

"You've got great timing," he says, going around the side and climbing in.

"I know," she says, pulling back out into the street. "Where to?"

"Library. I need to find my brother."

"Sure thing," she says. "So you've just walked into a trap, I'm guessing."

Dean rubs a hand up the side of his face "I hope not."

"But you think so." She accelerates down the main street, just barely breezing through an intersection just as the light turned red. "Should I be worried? Is there anything I need to know, like the salt thing?"

"I doubt it," he says, watching as she runs another yellow light. "If it's who I think it is, the best thing you could do is just stay low. They're not likely to bother you, which is good, 'cause there's not much you can do about it if they decide to."

"Great."

"I told you you didn't want to know."

"Duly noted," she says, pulling into the library parking lot, right next to a big black classic car she could swear looks familiar. "Isn't that your car?"

Dean throws open the door and is out of the car before she even comes to a complete stop. She takes that as a yes, throws the car into park and climbs out after him. To hell with the low profile. She's tired of this man blowing into her life, turning it upside down, and then disappearing before she knows which way is up. She was never born to play Penelope, but maybe she'll play Circe, this time around.

* * *

><p>2004<p>

Cassie heard it more than she saw it: a sigh went up from the crowd, as if they'd all let go of the same pent up breath in one was a moment of stunned, shocked silence, and then the applause and shouting began. Library guy was just one quirk away from being revealed as an international man of mystery, Cassie thought, watching her new friend the pool shark scoop up his winnings.

"Come on, man," laughed one of his supporters- one of the lucky few to have put bet on the newcomer, Cassie guessed- "You robbed us of all the suspense. You could have at least let the other guy think he had a chance." Dean tilted his head towards Cassie. "I had my reasons. Next time, man." He swaggered away from the pool table with the same nonchalance with which he'd approached it, but if anything, his grin had grown even more cocky. He brushed past her, throwing an arm around her shoulder and sweeping her away from the pool table. She raised an eyebrow. He smiled to the people still crowding around and said in an undertone, "So, once the shock wears off, I think there's about half a football team over there who are gonna be out for my blood."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before parting fools from their money," she said, leaning in and settling against his side. "You know, being used as a human shield was not exactly what I had in mind for this evening."

"You didn't expect to be stood up, either," Dean said, "I think we're both coming out ahead on this deal."

"You've got no shame, you know that, right?"

He winked. "Guilty as charged." He caught sight of a linebacker quickly approaching out of his peripheral vision. "So, what were your plans?" he asked. "I mean, before your friend ditched you?"

"By which you mean, do I have any plans that involve not being here five minutes from now?"

"I ain't gonna complain if you do," he said, picking up the pace just a little. "I've been in fights with drunk linebackers, and it's not fun. They don't know when to stay down."

"You say that like you've got a problem with it."

"Any permanent damage beyond bruised pride, and they go and call in the cops. I don't know 'bout you, sweetheart, but I'm not looking to commit any felonies tonight."

"I'll let them know to schedule you for tomorrow instead," she said dryly.

"Damn straight. So about those plans," he said as they got closer to the door. "Did you have any? Somewhere not here?"

"I did," she said. "My friend's cousin invited us to a frat party. I take it you're interested?"

"I would be honored to attend," he said, with all the fake dignity he could muster as he swept her out the door.

She laughed. It was going to be a good night.


	5. Library, 2010

**2010**

Dean takes the stairs in front of the library two at a time and strides through the front doors into a large and busy lobby. The sheer perkiness of this town is beginning to give him the creeps. It's a Tuesday afternoon and the library is full of smiling, happy patrons right out of a realty ad. He dodges a group of serious-minded teenagers and heads towards the middle of the building, hoping to find a reference librarian.

He'd been expecting something smaller- some tiny town library crowded into a glorified shed and presided over by sharp-eyed little old ladies with a soft spot for earnest-looking young men. Instead, the library is bigger and grander than a number of the kind he's found on the smaller college campuses, with nooks and alcoves and stairs leading up to at least four other floors, judging from the size of the building. The center of the main floor opens up into a wide, airy hall, giving him a glimpse of the other stories and their endless rows of bookcases. What he doesn't find is a reference desk. Instead, there's a reference island positioned towards the back of the hall and staffed by four different people. None of them are the little old ladies he'd pictured. There's a small line waiting politely behind a sign that asks just that. Dean skips the line, heading straight for the desk where a young woman is flirting with the librarian behind it, a slender, dark-haired dude with a thick Boston accent.

"Hey," Dean says, ignoring the glares of the folks still waiting in line. "I just need a second of your time-"

"I can help you just as soon as the others in front of you in line get help," the librarian says, cutting him off. Dean gives him an impatient, put-upon smile and reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a badge, flipping it open and shoving it back just as quickly. "It'll only take a minute of your time. I'm looking for someone, a tall guy-," Dean holds a hand a few inches above his own head, "-he would have come in here a few hours ago, looking into local history?"

The librarian frowns. "Do we need to clear the library, Marshal?" Dean smiles again, but his patience is wearing thin and he suspects it shows. "Nothing like that. I just need to ask him some questions. He's...uh, a witness. It's for his own protection."

"Oh!" The librarian scratches at his neck. "Um. I'm sorry. I just got here. Do you have a picture?"

"No," Dean says, giving the guy the flat stare he'd found effective in hurrying people up before they could start to think to ask questions. The librarian gives him a nervous look and says, "Let me just ask my colleagues." Dean twitches his head in agreement, and the guy turns to the woman staffing the desk behind him. "Hey Judy. There's a federal marshal here looking for-" he turns back to Dean with a questioning look. "Caucasian male, 6'4, brown hair, wearing a gray jacket," Dean supplies, "would have gotten here about five, six hours ago- looking into the history of the area."

Judy purses her lips and shakes her head slowly side to side. "Sorry. I've been here all morning, but we've been swamped. He could have been here, but unless here was looking for something specific, I wouldn't remember him."

Dean nods his head, then pulls out his wallet. He rummages through the billfold for the appropriate card, finally finding the one matched to the badge. He slides it across the counter. "Thanks anyway," he says. "Please call me if you see him."

"Sure thing, Marshal," says Judy. Dean spins around on his heel, intending to walk far enough away that he can slip in between the rows of books and start searching the alcoves. He doesn't get far before his retreat is blocked by a woman watching him with a bemused expression on her face. "C'mon, Marshal," Cassie says, her voice laden with irony. She slips an arm in his and leads him towards the elevator. "I've got an idea where you might find your man."

Dean gives her a sideways look, but doesn't argue. He follows her lead into the elevator. She's got a keycard in her free hand. She pushes a button for a subterranean floor and swipes the card. He disentangles himself from her other arm. "So where are we going?"

"Down to the stacks. They keep most of the archival material down here- easier to keep things at the right temperature- but it's restricted access." She glances at him. "But I couldn't imagine that stopping you. Marshal. My guess is your brother isn't any different." The doors slide open, and she steps out, hailing an older man bent over a desk just next to the elevator.

"Hey Donny," she says. The man looks up from the book binding he's been so carefully repairing and grins. "Cassie! Back again so soon?"

"You got me," she says, turning her head away in mock shame, "I just can't resist your charms." They grin at each other for a second. It's obviously an old game. The man gives Dean an appraising look. "So why'd you drag the young fella behind you along?"

"So he could learn from the master, obviously," Cassie says, straight-faced. The old man snorts. "Seriously though," Cassie says, "We're looking for a friend of ours. He was looking into local history, but no one upstairs remembers seeing him. I was thinking he might have come down here."

The old man shrugs amiably. "Tall fella?" Dean nods. "There was a young man here from the San Francisco Chronicle. I haven't seen him leave. Last I looked, actually, he was down the hall in the reading room."

Dean is halfway down the hallway before the old man has even finished speaking. The first room is a staff lounge, followed by half a dozen storage closets, but eventually Dean finds a brightly lit room full of large, spacious desks. Sam is nowhere to be seen, though his jacket is hanging from the back of a chair. Dean walks over to it and looks down at the desk in front of it. One one side, there's a stack of books carefully lined up. On the other, several sheets of paper are covered with notes in Sam's handwriting. The last note on the top page stops mid-word. Dean grabs the jacket and heads back towards the front desk, where Cassie is still chatting with the old man.

"He was here," Dean says brusquely. "But I can't find him."

The old man frowns. "He couldn't have left without me seeing. I took him another book not even an hour ago."

"Could he be, I don't know, digging around in the stacks or whatever?" Dean says.

The old man shakes his head, but Cassie answers before he can. "Only the librarians have access to the books, Dean. You ask and they go looking for them."

Dean turns away, trying to think. His eye falls on a clock on the wall. "Is that accurate?" he asks.

"Should be," the old man says.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says. "Eight hours. Goddamnit."

"What is it?"

Dean sighs. "I think I know where he is." He walks over to the elevator and hits the call button. Cassie follows. "That's good, right?"

"Not so much," he says as the elevator dings. "One of these things ain't like the others." They both step in the elevator. "Dean, you're not making a hell of a lot of sense here." The doors slide close.

"You know how I told you there was the usual complement of weirdness going on?"

"Yeah?"

"Specifically, there were three hunters that tried to check the town out, and every single one of them woke up on the other side of the state, eight hours later, without a single memory of how they got there. We'd been working on the assumption that none of them got passed the city limits, but I don't think that was the case. It's just as possible that they were wandering around the town for most of that time, and then got their memories wiped and their asses kicked across several counties." The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened back onto the main floor. Dean walked quickly out and towards the exit, Cassie keeping pace with him all the while. "So what makes you think this is different?"

"Mainly? I'm still here. And the car- all our stuff- was still here. Those other hunters? There wouldn't have been any question about whether they'd made it across the border if they'd left all their stuff behind."

As they walk out of the library, Dean rummages through the pockets of his brother's jacket. Sam's phone is still in it. It's inconvenient but not surprising. But there's a silver lining, because he fishes something else out of the pocket instead: the keys to the Impala. Dean heads straight for it. Cassie watches as he drops Sam's jacket on the hood and then digs out his own phone and makes a call.

"Hey Bobby, it's me," he says, cradling the phone to his ear.

"Dean. Did you find Sam yet?"

"No, not yet. I've got a lead though. I need to know where exactly that gas station was." Dean could hear Bobby's puzzlement through the phone.

"Town called Hazen. Little strip of nothing out by the state line," he said at last. Dean pulls a notepad out of his jacket and jots it down. "So what exactly do you know about Raighsville? There's got to be something spooky or weird or something you haven't already told me."

The older man sighs. "I'm sorry, Dean. It's a nice, normal little town as far as I can tell. I mean, other than the obvious. No weird murders, no omens, no unexplained power outages...founded by Russian immigrants a hundred years ago. The name's a corruption of the Russian for paradise, but from what you've told me, it's nice, but not that nice. What's Cas say?"

"I'd tell you if I could get a hold of him," Dean says curtly. "He's not answering his phone."

"Well, keep trying. I'll see what else I can dig up. Call me if you find Sam."

"Will do, Bobby." Dean hangs up and glances at Cassie. "You know where a town called Hazen is?"

"Yes," she says, frowning. "I do actually. There was a feature- it doesn't matter. Anyway. It's off state route 160, off 25 south, way south. It's not really a town, just a collection of- well, farms. The town itself dried up and blew away fifty or so years ago."

"Great," he says. He grabs the jacket off the hood and unlocks the door to the car. He swings inside, the door clunking shut behind him. Before Cassie can react, he leans across the seat and unlocks the passenger side door. He's watching her with neutral eyes. And isn't that Dean all over. A test and an apology all rolled up into one small gesture. It's a rueful thought.

She opens the door and slides in. "Way back when, I kinda thought I'd end up running away with you," she says. Despite the seriousness of the last hour, a smile hovers on the edge of her lips. "I guess Hazen is far enough." He shrugs, but it's a light gesture, lacking the tension that underlined their every interaction last time they'd met. Whatever hurt had once existed between them has long sinced scabbed over, and she's surprised how grateful she is at that.

"You're probably going to regret it," he says. But there's a glint in his eye that she recognizes. He peels out of the parking lot, the tires of the old car squealing in protest, and she has to grip the door tight to keep from being thrown sideways. "So you going to share what's really going on here, or are you going to leave me guessing?"

"You really want to know?"

She rolls her eyes. "Dumbass question," he says, "I know. It's just- It's gonna sound pretty crazy," he warns her. "I mean, even to me it sounds crazy."

She waits.

"Okay, thing is...I'm not sure. Not exactly. But I've got a hunch, just not the details."

Cassie sighs and puts her face in her hands. "Don't tell me, I moved to crazy ritual cult town. There's some secret human sacrifice or something, isn't there?"

"I wish," he says, and there's something there that tells her he's not downplaying the idea of crazy ritual cult towns. "No, I'm thinking something more along the lines of a- a nature preserve. With bonus breeding program."

It's so not what she was expecting. She shifts her hand to uncover one eye and gives him the hairy eyeball treatment. "Okay, you got me. That does sound crazy."

He ignores her skepticism. "Here's the thing- this town, man. It's too happy. It's all marriage and babies and white picket fences. Like there's something in the water, but that's not it at all. It's in the blood. Sam was looking into genealogies. And maybe that could be a lot of things, but it's ringing a bell I kind of wish it wasn't. And...well, you work at the paper. You didn't think something was off with all those wedding announcements?"

She shakes her head. "I...don't know. I guess I didn't think about it. I mean, the college is here, and given the demographics of the town...if there's a breeding program here, it's not one you wouldn't find in any decent-sized college town in the country. Besides- maybe I'm just missing something, but I haven't seen anything particularly fishy. Plenty of deliriously infatuated college kids..." she shrugs. "but they aren't exactly rare." The unspoken reminder of another pair of young lovers lingers between them.

Dean shakes his head. "That's just lust." She raises an eyebrow, clearly questioning his recall. "Okay, so it's mostly just lust. This is different. It's all hearts and rainbows and happily ever after. And not a single divorce lawyer in town."

"People get divorced," she protests.

"But not enough for anyone to specialize," he says, pulling the car to a stop as they hit yet another red light. He turns to look at her directly. "Town this size, that sound right to you?"

She shakes her head. "So...there's too much love. Too much wedded bliss. What, you gonna tell me that Cupid's real or something?" she asks, expression wry. She's expecting a scoffed denial. Instead he just grunts and says, "Yeah, something like that."

She's watching him, but there isn't even the slightest hint that he might be joking. She's not sure how to even begin parsing that. Cupid. Jesus.

"...This isn't the part where you're going to tell me we were a match made in heaven, right?" she says instead, falling back on to safer ground as the light changes. Traffic inches forward.

"God, I hope not," he says, and the answer is as instant as it is fervent. And as much as she'd like to think he's joking, there's not an iota of humor in it. She broods on that for a moment as he swings the car through the intersection and towards the highway that leads out of town.

"Okay, for now, I'm just going to ignore that one. Let's say I accept your breeding program theory. Breeding for what? Tenderness?"

His face doesn't change, but there's a sharp exhale that in another life might have been a laugh. "Not exactly. Don't think cattle, think- uh, horses. Not a pet, but something you want healthy and well-cared for...as long as it has the right bloodlines. As long as it has the potential to be a champ."

"And...what? Someone is trying to breed a better racehorse?"

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Something like that."

Cassie rolls her eyes. "So how does this tie back to Raighsville and the case of too many warm fuzzies? What's the point of it all?"

He glances at her from the corner of his eye before focusing back on the road. "I'm not trying to be evasive. It's just that...uh, okay, so it's not only a really, really long story, it's one that goes above and beyond when it comes to the crazy." He shakes his head. "The details are a distraction. You wanted to know my theory, that's basically it."

Cassie makes a face and rubs her arm. "Urgh, I think maybe I'd have prefered the secret ritual sacrifice cult. At least that's a story that might be good for getting a foot in the door. It's going to be a pain in the ass to find a job somewhere else."

He actually looks startled. "What?"

"Well, you don't think I'm going to stick around here to be part of some creepy human zoo or whatever, did you? Seriously?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Well, not exactly, but-"

She folds her arms and just stares at him. "You actually used the word "breeding program" and implied that people are getting...getting-" she reaches for the right word, but it's one that damnably keeps escaping her. This isn't a situation that figures much into her usual vocabulary. She pauses. "What, brainwashed?"

"- whammied," Dean suggests, oh-so graciously. She turns up the intensity of her stare.

"Fine, excuse me, whammied, into marching down the aisle and popping out the requisite 2.5 kids with partners chosen by some sort of supernatural eugenics program and you're surprised that my first instinct is to run like hell?"

He brushes her off with the shake of his head. "It's not that, Cassie. Okay, yeah, it's creepy. You really don't even know, and I'm not going to tell you. But the thing is-" he stops, pursing his lips and holding his tongue. "Thing is," he starts again, "Whatever else is going on, this place is protected. Safe. Anything that's dangerous-"

"-to the herd," she says, interrupting, "because that's what we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Fine whatever, but still, this place has some serious mojo going on. You can't tell me you haven't noticed that there is some serious shit going down in the world right now. And then here's Raighsville, untouched by all of it. Hell, it even drop kicked Sam across the state, and I'll bet you anything that it's the same with the other hunters- a precaution to make sure that anything that might even represent the smallest danger to the town stays away. And you said it yourself. The people here are happy. What's wrong with that?" His grip tightens on the steering wheel, though if she hadn't been watching, she would have missed it. "You deserve that, Cassie." He puts a hand up before she can argue. "I don't mean the love whammy and bloodline crap. Even if that applied to you- which it probably doesn't because even here it's gotta be rare- good things happen here." There's something in his tone that she can't even begin to unpack, something soft and sad and dangerous, too. "You seem happy here. Aren't you?"

"What's happy?" she says, and it's only half-flippant. "It's not like every day is puppies and rainbows." She shrugs. "But...yeah. I've got a good life here. I'm not discounting that, Dean. But I can't exactly stick my head in the sand. If you're right, then it's not real-"

"I never said it wasn't real-" he protests.

She waves him off. "Whatever you want to call it. It's not..." she shrugged, "Earned. It's not that I don't want to be happy, Dean. I just want it to be on my terms. I want it to mean something."

The old bench seat creaks as he shifts his weight. "Maybe nothing means anything." It's too harsh to be flippant, though that's clearly what he was going for. She's managed to touch a nerve, and she's not sure why.

"No," she says, shaking her head sharply. "Meaning isn't- it isn't objective. There's no arbiter of meaning." She gestures. "Look, I don't have any answers. I don't know about meaning on the big picture scale. But it's like-" she purses her lips and shrugs. "I'm a reporter in a small town. Pretty much all I do is write stories about things that have no grand significance and will never make history. But you know, all those people, all those people whose lives don't even rate in the big picture...you talk to any of them, and it's all just pieces to them. Big and small stuff.. People talk about their whole lives as stories- in which all those little things are merely episodes, building to some end point they can't yet see." She turns her head, and stares out the window. Dean doesn't speak, just waits for her to continue. She shakes her head. "It's not about the big picture, Dean. It's about the meaning you make for yourself. And mine is- mine is that my life is my own."

He smiles, but it's a wry and bitter little smile. "That makes one of us," he says, ever cryptic. But before she can pry, a car pulls in front of them suddenly and the moment is lost when he slams on the brakes and is forced to swerve around it. He flips the driver off, and then the car is point out over the straight stretch of road that'll lead them back out to the highway.

* * *

><p><strong>2004<strong>

Sherri cornered her in the kitchen nearly the instant after Cassie had gone to fetch another drink. "You called mystery library guy without telling me?"

"Maybe," Cassie said mildly, then rolled her eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't have stood me up at the bar."

Sherri rolled her eyes right back at her. "Oh, come on Cassie. I already told you- John roped me into helping with setup and I forgot my phone. I knew you'd end up here eventually, so stop torturing me already and spill."

"You are such a gossip hound," Cassie said, making a furtive dash for the cooler. Sherri cruelly blocked her escape with a turn towards the left. "Yes, I know. My doctors tell me there's no cure."

Cassie sighed. "He was at the bar."

"Damn. I wish I'd know that. I could've saved myself an apology and claimed it was all part of my master plan."

Cassie grinned. "You know, I did think of that."

"You know me well." She sighed. "I only wish I could claim responsibility for that," she said, eyeing Dean from across the room. He was apparently killing it at beer pong. "You'd owe me forever."

"Pfft. Eternal gratitude is kind of a lot for a random hookup, no matter how good looking."

Sherri shrugged. "Maybe. Except for the part where the two of you have spent the entire night making googley eyes at each other. If it were any more saccharine, I'd have diabetes."

Cassie couldn't stop the slow grin spreading across her face. She looked up to the ceiling, lips pressed together, still smiling. She glanced back at Sherri. "It's dumb, I know. It's such a bad idea. God. I'm like two drinks away from talking solely in cliches. Like this one: You ever meet someone and it just- clicks, like the final domino falling in a chain? Something that just feels so obvious once you see it?"

Sherri got a faraway look on her face, then shook it clear. "Not the way you mean, but yeah. I get you."

"I hardly know him, and I just kind of want to run off with him and damn the consequences. And it's just so stupid- so not me."

"Not so stupid- look at what you already know about him. You know he's smart and funny and gorgeous. And when he's looking at you, he hardly notices anyone else in the room. And...and..." Sherri said, valiantly striving for more, "He's-uh. Good at beer pong. You should totally run off with him."

Cassie turned to watch him. "It'd be fun, wouldn't it? You know, before the inevitable bitter end."

"Aw, Cassie," Sherri said, "Enjoy the fantasy. You're too practical for your own good, sometimes."

Cassie shook her head. "That's not me. Someone's got to keep their feet on the ground."

"You sound like your Dad."

Cassie quirked her lips at that. "He's not always wrong, you know."

Sherri shook her head again, then stepped aside. "You're hopeless. Still...Better get back to that boy of yours before he does something stupid like wander off. And remember," Sherri said, pointing at Cassie with two fingers, "Test drive."

"Oh- shut up.," Cassie said. She smacked Sherri hard on her shoulder. Across the room, Dean looked up and saw Cassie. His smile was nearly incandescent. Cassie felt something shift, some inner gear, and wondered, just for a second, if this is how her mother had felt the day she'd met her father.

Sherri tsk'd. "Just go already," Sherri said, making a shooing motion. "I'll get the damn drink."

Cassie did.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've got another five thousand words or so of this story written and ready to go, but I've got a little bit to bridge between that and the end of this chapter before I can post it. **


	6. The Road, 2010

**A/N: New chapter! This story is turning out to be a lot longer than I originally envisioned. I also added a fair bit to the last chapter, so readers may want to return to it first. (I've added about five thousand words to the story, even before this chapter.)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>2010<p>

Dean begins to relax as soon as the neighborhoods give way to small ranches and the occasional farm supply store. He's never going to be mistaken for relaxed, but he seemed less tense, less hunted. She can already see him rewriting the whole story of this misadventure in his head- it's no longer a problem, now simply a near miss, soon to be forgotten and left behind. If she were still twenty-two, that would probably upset her, but it's been a long time since then, and she's done a lot of growing up. Whatever catastrophe he's running from has nothing to do with her.

But they've got a long drive ahead of them, and she's a reporter. And she kind of suspects that she's going to be catching a bus back into town, so she breaks the silence with some deliberate nosiness.

"So why is everyone convinced you're a dead serial killer?"

He startles a little, as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Uh, what?"

"Your reputation as a serial killer. And unless you picked up some new hobbies, it was of the kind that can't be explained by- I don't know, staking vampires or whatever it is you do."

"Beheading," he says.

"What?"

"What you do to vampires," he says, but stops at that.

She gives him a level stare. "Don't change the subject. C'mon, spill. I've had to put up with questions about serial killers and your supposed women-hating tendencies for years."

He rubs his temple and squints at her. "You'll probably regret asking."

"Just tell me."

He makes a face. "Shapeshifter. It was already killing people, it just added my face to its repertoire."

"So why was it….?"

"Tying people up and torturing them to death?" He shakes his head. "I've got no idea."

"So, what, it was basically a serial killer with super powers?" Even knowing what she knows, she can't quite keep the incredulity out of her voice.

He shrugs. "Shifters, man. They're all crazier than bedbugs."

She glances at the window, processing this. They've finally made it to the city limits, nothing before them but a hundred miles of highway.

...and a tree. The car is drifting across the line. "Dean, hey!" She glances back at him. She'd expected to see him yawning, maybe- but what she doesn't expect is to see him slumped over against the door.

And there's still headed straight for the tree. "Fuck!" She reaches over, first for the steering wheel, jerking them away from the tree and back on the road, but she over corrects and now they're swerving from side to side as she tries to steer from way, way, way over on the passanger side of the goddamn behemoth of a car. His foot must still be on the accelerator, too, because they're not slowing down. She curses the seatbelt, finally managing to unbuckle it with her other hand, giving her the freedom to move. Still holding on to the wheel with her left hand, she reaches over and pulls the car out of drive and down into neutral.

The car immediately begins to coast to a stop, and she manages to steer the car onto the shoulder. The car comes to a stop. She reaches over and turns the ignition to off. She rests her head against the window for a second, then pushes the door open and stumbles out. She walks around to Dean's side of the car, and opens the door, careful not to let him fall out as she does so. Once she's sure he isn't going to tip over, she reaches down, removes his foot from the accelerator, and puts on the parking brake.

"This is why it never would have worked out between us," she tells Dean, and her voice sounds so calm, too calm, but her heart is racing. He doesn't say anything, of course. He's still unconscious, though his breathing seems fine. "Trouble follows you around like a puppy. You should come with a Surgeon General's warning." Cassie undoes his seatbelt and pushes him onto his side, his head pointed towards the passenger walks back around to the other side and thanks God for bench seats. She braces herself against the seat reaches in, and grabs him by his arms, then proceeds to drag him across the seat. After a few minutes more of tugging and pulling and pushing, she manages to get him not only on to the passenger side of the car, but also propped up in such a way that she's able to close the door.

She walks around to other side of the car and gets in. She considers heading back into town- passing out like that... it should merit a trip to the emergency room, no questions asked. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. But she doubts whatever caused this was anything as mundane as a stroke or low blood sugar. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. His brother might have answers, but then again, he might not, and she'd be driving a potentially sick man too many miles into the middle of nowhere. "Fuck." She valiantly restrains the urge to beat her head against the steering wheel. Instead, she puts the car in gear and turns around, heading back into town. By the time they hit the ranches and feed stores, Dean starts showing signs of life again. By the time they hit the main drag, he's managed to right himself. He rubs a hand over his face and stares at her through bleary eyes.

"What the fuck just happened?"

"You know, and here I was hoping you'd tell me." Cassie taps her fingers on the steering wheel, still feeling twitchy with the effects of the adrenaline. That had come out a lot more sarcastic than she'd intended. She takes a deep breath. "Soon as we crossed the city limits, it was like someone just flicked a switch. Out you went, I thought you'd had a fucking stroke or something- and on top of that, you know, the whole fucking tree-" She pulls the car over and throws it into park then closes her eyes and presses her lips together, trying desperately to regain her equilibrium.

He rubs his hand over his head. "Shit. I knew coming here was a bad idea."

Cassie opens one eye and looks at him sideways. "I'm getting that," she says flatly. "So what do we do now?"

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess. I don't even know for sure what we're dealing with. Just give me a minute." He pinches the bridge of his nose, then pulls out his phone and punches a few buttons. The volume on it must be high, because even where she's sitting, Cassie can dimly hear it ringing. After a moment, someone picks up.

"Bobby. It's me," Dean says. "What exactly were you able to dig up about his town?"

"Dean? What happened? I thought you were going to get Sam." The man sounds taken aback, and Cassie's imagination provides a picture of him- an older, grizzled version of Dean, sitting at a table somewhere, peering bemusedly at the phone.

"Yeah, that was the plan Bobby. But I blacked out- apparently- just past the city limits. I got a feeling something's keeping me on a short leash here, and I wanna know what it is."

"Dean, I don't know what to tell you. You could try catching a bus out of town, and see if the effects wear off. 'Course, my bet is that whatever it is, it's powerful. Could be that the further you go, the worse it'll get."

"Fantastic." Dean bites the word off. "Just...let me know if anything else turns up. Anything. I've got a bad feeling about this, Bobby."

"Me too, kid," the man on the other end says. From the look on his face, Dean doesn't find that assurance particularly comforting. "Bye, Bobby." He hangs up.

"So?" Cassie says, wondering what the next move will be.

He makes a face. "His best suggestion was to keep driving and see if it wears off."

Her expression turns skeptical. "And you want to try that?"

He turns to face her more fully. "Depends. How well do you know CPR?"

"Not that well," she says, emphatic.

He sighs. "Cassie, look, I need to get Sam and we need to get the hell out of here. It's not just the heebie jeebies, we've walked into something bad."

"So what now? Because I have to admit, this is just a little outside my field of expertise."

He doesn't answer her directly. "Cassie," he says, holding his hands out for the keys, "Switch places with me."

Her expression gets even more skeptical. "I don't think so. My nerves haven't recovered that much."

"Look, as long as we stay within town, it shouldn't be a problem."

"You don't even know that for sure," she scoffs. "You're guessing. You have no idea what caused this."

He glowers at her. "I know what I'm doing...and it's my damn car."

"I should be taking you to the hospital, but I'm not - but you know what? I'm not letting you drive, you goddamn stubborn ass."

"Cassie-"

She holds up a hand. "Don't even start with me, Dean." She leans back against the seat, runs a hand up her forehead, and pinches her nose. "Okay, what's the next move here?"

He opens his mouth.

"And if you dare say some shit like, 'you go home, this isn't your problem' I swear to god I will drag your ass off to the hospital and let you explain all this to them."

His mouth falls into a tight, pinched expression, and he works his jaw for a moment before saying, "I don't know. I've got this.. friend who's probably the fastest way out of this problem. But he's not answering his phone, and there could be about a million reasons for that. So that leaves research. Bobby'll probably have more luck, but I guess there might be something up at the college."

"It happens that I know a thing or two about research," Cassie says.

"Yeah, for all the good that'll do," he says. He exhales through his nose. "Tell me they've got a great religious studies department or some big time cultural anthropologists up there."

"I don't know," Cassie says. "Strangely enough, the topic has never come up in my day to day life. But it's not really a research university, Dean."

He shrugs. "Gotta start somewhere, and I'm apparently on a short leash here."

Cassie thinks for a moment, then says, "Well…you know, they may be short on ancient tomes, but they've got a big collection and series of exhibits on the history of the town in the college library. They got a big grant for it, I was there for the opening ceremony last year." She glances back over at Dean. "If there's something weird in the history of town, it'll be there."

He tries to cover a yawn. "Sure, why not."

Cassie gives him a critical once over. "I can make a start on it if you want to get some sleep first," she says.

He rubs his temples. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, I can tell, what with the passing out and everything," she says.

"That was your weird freaky town," Dean says.

"Yeah, maybe, but Dean, you look like seven kinds of shit."

'"Awesome. Thanks, Cassie."

"Seriously though, Dean, listen- you look half dead already. You had something bizarre and probably dangerous happen to you not ten minutes ago. What good will you be for dealing with whatever this is or helping Sam or whatever if you can hardly stand up straight?"

"I'll manage."

"Don't give me any of that macho bullshit."

"It's not macho bullshit," he says, and sags back against the seat. "I just don't have time. Sam and me-" he licks his lips and glances away. "We're in deep shit, Cassie, and it only ever seems to get deeper. I can't be here- I've got trouble on my tail that I just can't shake, and you don't want it touching down here."

Cassie watches him for a moment, and thinks. "Okay," she says. "Okay." She starts the car again. "But I'm still helping, and you're still going to take it easy."

"Seriously, I'm fine. Let's go back to the library, I'll drop you off and get your out of your life. This isn't your fight, and I don't need anyone else jumping in the line of fire for me.'

Cassie rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "You sure do have a high opinion of yourself in very selective ways." Cassie says, "I'm offering to help with the research, Dean. I'm a reporter, it's kind of my specialty, and I've got a lot more access to information than you, felony impersonation or no. I'm not taking a bullet for you here. I'm just hitting the books."

"That's probably more dangerous," he mutters, but before she can inquire, he speaks again. "Cassie," he says, sounding tired, "You don't owe me anything. This doesn't involve you. Go home and forget you ever saw me."

Cassie brushes a lock of her hair back and tucks it behind her ear. "You think that's what this is about? Guilt or...obligation?"

"Well I know you're not trying to get into my pants," he says, and his face is briefly haunted by the ghost of his old flirty smile.

"Nah," she says, and she reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I've got no debts to pay."

"Hey, I did save your life," he says, but it sounds like a forced, rote response. There's no feeling behind it.

She shrugs. "You would've done that regardless. That's just who you are- I'm not giving you special credit for that." She turns the car back onto the road. "We'll check out as much as we can from the library, and then we can head back to my place to get a start on it, and maybe you'll stop looking like death warmed over."

Dean just looks at her, and his gaze doesn't waver. "Why?"

Cassie shoots him an offended glance, then turns back to the road. "I know you don't think I became a reporter for the money," she says. "And I'd be insulted if you thought I could ever be the kind of person who could see shit go down and turn a blind eye to it, especially after what happened to my family."

She slows the car as they approach the intersection, and pulls to a stop at the red light.

"That's not enough," he says. "Not for this."

Cassie shrugs, and then gives him a level look. "It is for me."

He holds her gaze for just a beat longer, and there's a fragility in his eyes she wouldn't expect from the hard, wounded man he's become. He looks away. She wonders, just for a second, what he must have faced to have made even small kindnesses seem unendurable. She doesn't want to know.

"Fine," he says. He forces his face into a scowl. His voice is gruff. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Glad we've gotten that cleared up," she says, and she guns the car as the light changes, just because she can, and just to prove her point. She swings the old behemoth through the turn and up the hill to the college.

The silence lasts until Cassie turns into the college entrance and heads for the visitor parking lot.

"I hate coming up here," Cassie says, if only to create some verbal distance between now and the awkwardness of their last conversation. "It makes me feel ancient. It's like- I remember being a student, I remember what it felt like, the outlook, all that. But it feels like such a damn long time ago. And then there's all the students- the grad students even, and they look like such babies, but every once in awhile, one of the older staff members will mistake me for a student….and urgh, I don't know why, but that makes it worse."

Dean huffs something that might be agreement. "I know the feeling."

Cassie raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"The occasional campus case or whatever." He gives a half shrug. "Harder to get information outta people- they used to just peg me as someone's nosy buddy, you know?"

She hides a smile. "And now, what, you're...ooh, taken as a campus creeper?"

"What? No," he says, but he scowls as he does so, and she knows she's right. She grins, and that just makes his scowl grow deeper. "I stick to the Fed suit these days," he says, "since they tend to think I'm one anyway- fuck if I know why- and it's a pain in the ass. They won't say half as much to a cop as they would to the drunk, gossipy frat boy."

She finds a parking spot and stops the car. "Well, you'd be surprised what they're willing to tell a reporter. You should it some time."

"Nah," he says. "That's more Sam's gig."

"Well, it's your gig this afternoon," she says, getting out of the car. "Marshal Make Believe won't fly up here."

Dean gets out and then bangs the door shut behind him. "I'll start practicing the puppy eyes."

"You need less practice than you seem to think," Cassie says wryly. She tosses him the keys over the hood of the car in a gesture of good faith.

He catches them, then curls his fingers around them like a talisman.

**"C'mon," she says as he tucks the keys into his back pocket, "There are some books with our names on them."**


	7. Frat Party, 2004

**2004**

The party carried on deep into the night, and seemed disinclined to slow down at all..Cassie eventually ended up dragging Dean outside, the chill night air a welcome respite from the stuffy, beer-tinged atmosphere of the party. It's quiet out here, the raucous noises of the party somehow dampened and stilled by the sheer serenity of the spring night. Cassie slumped carelessly against the back of the old wooden bench set beneath the spread branches of a huge and sprawling tree. She was tired and a little tipsy and the lateness of the hour lent her limbs a loose boneless quality she didn't care to correct.

Dean watched her sprawl across the bench from a few feet away, drink still perched in his hand and his mouth quirked. There was something soft in his eyes that she couldn't begin to guess at - not the familiar softness of lust-driven charm, nor the gooey looks of romantic fantasies, but something deep and still. She looked away, flustered, feeling like she'd caught sight of something secret. She gazed upwards instead, through the interlaced branches of the tree. The branches were still bare, the little green buds that would be visible come daybreak still hidden against the backdrop of the clear and moonless night sky. Cassie tilted her head back further, until the stars seemed to be draped between the boughs like unseasonable Christmas lights. She stayed that way for several long moments, the only sign of the passing of time being the goosebumps the cool night air raised up and down her arms. Eventually, the bench creaked and she her feet were temporarily lifted to make room for the admittedly fine ass of her companion.

She didn't look up, just drawled, "Dean Winchester, you better not be trying to sweep me off my feet."

"Never," he said. He paused. "Unless it's working." The last was said with an exaggerated leer. Cassie burst out laughing. Dean grinned back, easy and open.

"So why are you really here," Cassie asked, "In town, I mean."

He shrugged. "I didn't bullshit you. I was investigating those deaths I told you about."

"Don't get me wrong, but- why?"

He glanced over at her. "It's just what we do." He saw the question on her face before she could ask it. "My family. Well, my dad and me at least. It's kind of the family business."

"What, you're private investigators?"

He made a face. "Something like that. But the details are a lot depressing when they aren't a lot boring-"

"Like the deaths at the Ridges," she filled in.

"Yeah. And it's a beautiful night and I'm talking to this gorgeous girl, so-"

Cassie waved a hand and nodded. "Talking about parents isn't what you had in mind, huh?"

"Well, it was pretty far down the list," he confided with a wink.

"I bet," she said. "But all right, let me ask you this- if it's so boring and depressing, why do you do it? Your dad?"

"Man, you're persistent. But yeah, I guess that's part of it. Y'know." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Not to get all emotional about it or anything, but my brother already took off and - I can't do that, you know?"

"Family's important," Cassie agreed.

"Exactly," he said, throwing his hands up in the air, "But you'd think I was the only person who gets that." He rolled his eyes. "But you know- the thing is, that's not really it. I mean, it's there, and it's important, but it's not why I do it."

"So why do you?"

He shifted in the seat. "Okay, I know this is going to sound a little corny, but-" he shrugged and stopped. He actually sounded sheepish. Cassie was amazed.

"Can't be worse than your pick-up lines," she teased. "So tell me."

He rubbed a hand over his head again. "Okay, fine. So the thing is- there are people walking around today who wouldn't be alive if it weren't for what my dad does. And you know- that matters. It's a hard and ugly job, but I get to wake up each day knowing what I do makes a difference." The last was spoken with heated conviction, as if he expected an argument.

Cassie leaned back and smiled to herself. "That's not so corny," she said. "You gotta care about stuff like that. It's how you know you're alive, right?"

He shifted again, obviously uncomfortable, and shrugged. "Yeah, so, anyway. What about you? Why are you here? What are you in for?"

"Journalism major," she said lightly, "and yes I do know about the job market and no I don't care, so don't give me any shit about it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, holding his hands up. "So you're going to grow up to be Lois Lane, huh," he said, but his tone was light and teasing.

She poked at him with her foot. "Hell no. I'm not waiting around for Superman." She paused, and then she added, "And I certainly wouldn't be fooled by a pair of glasses, for God's sake."

"Nah," he agreed.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, which were covered in goosebumps. "Brr," she said. "Let's go back inside." She pulled her feet back and sat up. Dean got to his feet and she followed suit.

"Yeah, it's about time for another drink," Dean said, as they headed inside. "What can I grab you?"

"Mmm," she thought for a second, "I think just some water."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I've got a system," she said, shrugging. "Two drinks, glass of water, rinse and repeat."

"It's your liver," he said, and then headed for the kitchen. Cassie lingered near the sofa, which was vacant except for a frat boy unsuccessfully trying to hit on Sherri's friend Madeline. Madeline rolled her eyes and walked off, and after a minute, the frat boy wandered off, dejected. Cassie slid in and claimed the sofa before anyone else could. She heard footsteps behind her, and she turned, smiling, expecting to see Dean.

Instead, she saw a tall, muscle-bound man she dimly recognized as one of the football players from earlier in the evening. _Shit_. She smiled at him brightly. "Hey," she said. "How's it going?"

He stared at her, looking slightly puzzled. Even ignoring the smell, he was pretty clearly three sheets to the wind, and she had a long couple of seconds where she hoped against hope that maybe, _maybe,_ he was just a little too sloshed to place her.

"Hey," he said. "You were with that guy from the bar," he said, "the one who took all our money."

"Didn't your mama teach you not to gamble?" Cassie said. The man ignored her, which pissed her off, but she soon realized what had drawn his attention. She hadn't noticed that Dean had returned from the kitchen until he stepped around the sofa to stand beside her, drinks still in hand. Several more members of the football team materialized behind the irate linebacker. Dean's expression remained calm, but there was a sudden sharpness about him that hadn't been there even a moment before.

There were whispers all around them. The room, which had been relatively sparsely populated just a minute ago, was now full of people, watching attentively.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Dean said, his demeanor still completely casual.

"Yeah," said the first man, his voice slightly slurred and his stance decidedly unsteady, "you can give me my money back."

"_My_ money," Dean corrected. "You know, what with the part where you lost it."

"Dean," Cassie said, hoping her tone suitably conveyed the message that she had no interest in getting an academic suspension just a few short months of graduating. He flicked his eyes at her, his expression briefly apologetic.

"Okay," Dean said, "I can see how that might come across as kind of insensitive." The football player glared, and clenched his hands. His knuckles cracked, and the crowd's murmur went up a few notches. Dean held up his hands. "Let's be fair here- I'll make you a deal. How's this...hmm. Yeah. You can have it back- if you can take it off me."

Cassie rolled her eyes heavenward, and began mentally composing her letter of apology to the Dean of Students. "Listen," she said. "This is a party, so why don't we all just go back to having a good time." She glanced over at Dean, who shrugged. "Fine by me."

"I want my money back," the football player reiterated, not budging.

Dean held his hands up in the universal gesture for _what can you do_. "In that case- fine. But what do you say we take this outside, huh? Just you and me, one on one. If you think you're man enough."

The football player snorted through his nose. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said.

Dean turned to Cassie. "Hold these," he said, theatrically shoving the drinks into her hands. He caught her eye. She gave him a questioning look. His expression didn't change, but he flicked his eyes back towards the kitchen.

"So are we doing this, or do you need to find someone to hold your tiara first?" Dean said, but it was mostly directed at the crowd. There was a mixture of cheers and boos. Before anyone could react, Dean spun on his heel and headed towards the door with purpose. As he reached the door, he tossed a contemptuous look over his shoulder. "I'll be outside," he said, and then swung himself through the door.

The football player scowled, clenched his fists again, and moved towards the door. His buddies shared confused glances. One of them shrugged, and then as a group, they followed the first one out.

With the attention off her, Cassie melted into the crowd and sidled towards the kitchen. Distantly, she heard what might have been a shout and a cry of pain. As soon as she was outside the view of the main room, she dropped the cups on the counter and bolted through the back door. As she expected, Dean was waiting for her, his eyes shining.

There was another angry shout from the other side of the house. Dean grabbed her hand. "C'mon," he said, and then took off running, pulling Cassie behind him. Cassie held on tight. They hopped the low fence separating the house from the one behind it, then tore through the other ard and out to the street. Cassie pulled Dean around a corner and down the street, towards the jogging path. They ran until they were nearly breathless, stopping only where the path broadened into a long and winding park. It wasn't large- mostly just large, looming trees lining the path, some hedges, and a few benches set back into small groves. Cassie slowed to a walk after they'd gone around a few bends in the path, not easily visible from the road. Dean pulled away to collapse against a tree. He doubled over in nearly-silent laughter. He swiped at his eyes. "You should have seen his face," he laughed.

His mirth was catching. Cassie grinned back. "What happened?"

"I tripped him as he came out the door, and then bolted before he knew which way was up," he said. "I guess he wasn't expecting it." He smiled up at Cassie. "I told you I wasn't planning on committing any felonies today."

"Guess you did," Cassie said, still grinning. "But now I'm wondering how on earth you've managed to live this long. Do you always go looking for trouble?"

"It finds me," he said, "And I'm just that good."

Cassie rolled her eyes, and lightly batted at his shoulder with her hand. "Your guardian angel must have ulcers," she said.

"He's taken it up with his union rep," Dean said, but before Cassie could reply, she was interrupted by the sounds of heavy footsteps and angry voices. Dean pulled her back against the tree, and then crouched down, moving into the shadow of the large bush between them and the main path. She followed him down, staying close as to minimize their profile. Dean turned towards her, so that their shoulders were nearly brushing, bent in closer, and held a finger to his lips. She rolled her eyes. She'd kind of already figured that much out.

The footsteps and voices grew nearer. Cassie held her breath.

"This is pointless, man," said a voice only a few feet away. "The asshole's got to be miles away by now." There was the snap and crunch of small sticks and gravel underfoot as the speaker turned in a slow circle.

"Fuck," said another voice. It sounded a lot like the linebacker.

"Let's head back to the party," said the first voice.

There was a grumble from the presumptive linebacker. "Fine," he said. The whole bush shook after he kicked it hard, only about two feet to Cassie's left. Small sticks and leaves rained down around her. The linebacker stomped off.

Cassie continued to hold her breath for another few seconds, then let it out in a sigh. Dean gave her a sheepish grin. She butted him in the shoulder with her own. He reached up and pulled a stick from her hair and tossed it away. Their eyes met. In the dark, Cassie couldn't see the color of his eyes, but she didn't really need to. She'd been noticing them all night: their color, the way they shone with humor, belying his smirks and undercutting the sleazy one liners. The way his eyes had hardly strayed from her all night. Oh, yes. She didn't need light to remember their brilliance.

The gaze went on for another long, uncomfortable moment, not breaking, not even shifting. Cassie felt her pulse quicken. Before she could think twice, she leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were softer than she expected. He returned the kiss before she could begin to doubt herself, and the kiss was warm and inviting, not at all the artless, careless kiss of the player she'd originally taken him for. She leaned forward a little more, deepening the kiss, tasting the beer on his breath, feeling the warmth of it against her own chilled lips, breathing in the smell of his skin.

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled them both to their feet, picking her up so effortlessly that she felt like she might float away. His touch was gentle, but his grip was firm, and he was _strong_, so very strong. The thought sent a pleasant little shiver coursing through her.

Time evaporated. Somewhere in the branches of the tree above them, an owl hooted. She was unsure how long they stayed locked in that embrace, how long it was before she broke away, if only to catch her breath. And when she did, she found she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Dean stared back at her, his eyes wide and startled, his face mirroring back to her her own surprise. He tightened his arm around her, holding her so close she could feel his heart beating. Cassie relaxed against him, relieved of some burden she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying. She felt giddy. Euphoria bubbled up through her veins like her blood had become champagne.

"I live only a few blocks from here," she said, and the words had spun off into the darkness before she'd even realized she was going to say them.

He froze, and then his answering grin lit up the night. He spun her around in a quick circle, and she laughed in delight. He leaned in, kissed her deeply, and set her down. She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the path towards her apartment.

It was a good night.


End file.
